Sometimes I get in a funk when I’m home alone at night. Ok, fine, I’ll say the “L” word no thirty-three year-old woman is supposed to say: lonely. I get lonely. A lot. And loneliness bites, anyone who has experienced it in even small amounts knows. So there is a routine I do when I’m lonely, that some think is downright silly, but slows my thinking down just enough. I watch Casablanca 🎥. As well-dressed women and champagne cocktails dance across the screen, I’m the farthest thing from pathetic. I’m a fashion writer drunk on midnight in luxury pajamas. I tune into the other cues around me that I have been waiting for hours to wane my woe. The candles flickering around the studio, the smell of luxe lotions I apply when I’m anxious, and the stellar throw blanket I selected just for the watch. I can feel my talent alive when Ingrid Bergman is on the screen and romance in the men’s suits of that era. I’m a young woman, in the age of the young woman, with an exciting career and a closet that would make your jaw drop. I feel so endlessly chic, surrounded by built-ins lined with the latest fashions in footwear, I think they’d even let me in Rick’s gin joint. But when three AM rolls around, my heart is as frantic as war-torn France. I snatch a baguette while i’m there. 🥖
